Endure
by SilverWind9
Summary: To be blissfully blind is often preferable to knowing the truth. Post Blight, Alistair/f!Mahariel.
1. Chapter 1

_Warmth._

The warmth of the morning sunlight on her bedsheets.

The warmth of the person beside her, still deep in slumber.

The warmth of contentment that radiated inside of her, an overwhelming sense of peace.

She awoke to the all-encompassing sensation of warmth, and realized in that hazy moment that she was perfectly content. The Blight was defeated, Ferelden had been saved, and here she was, Warden-Commander of the kingdom and also its first Dalish arl.

Running a hand through her hair, she sat up and gazed out the window by her bed. It was a picturesque, almost dreamlike sight, the arling of Amaranthine in spring. Past the rooftops of the Keep, she could see the wide expanse of forest that surrounded the fortress, some trees richly verdant, others swathed in light yellow or pink blossoms. The world was aglow in sunlight.

From where she sat, she could hear faint snippets of birdsong, interrupted by the occasional clatter of the residents of Vigil's Keep coming to life in the morning. A voice out calling here and there, a hammer beating out a few test blows on an anvil, the clatter of armor and steel upon steel as the recruits went through their drills in the yard. These were not the sounds of her childhood, of the days she had spent roaming in the sail-wagons of her people, but she had grown to love them nonetheless.

Alistair shifted slightly beside her, drawing her attention back into their small but comfortable room. He was still fast asleep, and she leaned in close to admire his tawny hair, his peaceful expression, and his chiselled figure that the sheets could not hide. The sound of his slow, steady breathing was one she treasured more than all others combined.

She let him slumber for a few moments longer before placing a hand on his shoulder and giving him a light shake.

"It's past dawn, Alistair. We should rise."

"Mmph," was his sole muffled response.

"The recruits will be awaiting us, emma lath."

He opened his eyes blearily before immediately shutting them tight again.

"Is a darkspawn horde invading?" he murmured.

She frowned slightly, trying to gauge whether or not this was an attempt at a joke. It was difficult for her to tell, sometimes, even with as much practice as she had received in the past couple of years. Her people were not ones for casual humour.

"I have heard of no such invasion," she finally decided to reply.

"Did Loghain return from the grave and instigate another civil war?"

"No." She was fairly sure he was joking, now.

"Then... surely the recruits can wait another half hour, my dear." And then he rolled over and buried his head in his pillows. At that, she laughed.

"Rise, Alistair." She placed both hands on his shoulders now, giving him a stronger shake. "You can't slumber forever."

"Can't I?" came the muffled reply. "Please?"

"You are the sleepiest shemlen I've ever met," she declared.

When he failed to answer with any form of retort, she placed an arm around him and snuck in close, nipping at his earlobe. His response was a comfortable sigh, but she could see that his eyes were still tightly shut. Clearly, it was time to take a different approach.

Letting her hands wander under the sheets and down his body, she was satisfied by his sharp intake of breath and a murmured, indistinguishable curse. He was hard, having just been woken, and she was not about to let that change.

After only a few strategic caresses, Alistair let out a groan, and she was finally rewarded with him shifting, pushing her back as though she weighed nothing at all, and sleepily rolling on top of her. She kissed him and he responded to her mouth with his own, again and then again, growing steadily more insistent with each pause. Firm hands sought out her body, and held her close.

When he positioned himself against her, however, she noted with amusement that his eyes were still half-shut.

"You're not quite awake yet, are you?"

Alistair paused, raised an eyebrow, and was finally alert enough to grin at her.

"You wound me, my dear."

Slowly, slowly, he thrust into her. With her whispered encouragement he buried his head at her shoulder, and let her wrap her legs around him, pulling him close. He sped up at her insistence, thrust after heated thrust until the bed creaked from their lovemaking, until she could not restrain her voice, until he spent himself inside her, hands joined tightly with hers.

Afterwards, as they lay back recovering their breaths, she was struck with a sudden, inexplicable sense of despair. Seeing this, her lover's expression changed into instant wakefulness and concern.

"What is it? Did I hurt you?" He cupped a hand on her cheek, and worried eyes examined her own.

She shook her head. The sudden, inexplicable feeling was already beginning to fade.

"I'm fine," she murmured, unsure as to how she could possibly explain what had just happened. Only one thought rang in her mind now, and she spoke it plainly without understanding its connection. "I'm happy to be with you."

"You make me happy too," he answered, kissing her gently on the temple before finally sitting up, stretching. After swinging his legs around and placing them on the stone floor, Alistair offered her his hand. "Come, let's go have breakfast. And I believe you said something about there being recruits to train?"


	2. Chapter 2

By the evening, she had all but forgotten what had transpired.

Alistair had command of the watch that night, and so she found herself alone in her study after dinner, listening to the comforting crackle of the fireplace as she glanced over the many papers a Warden-Commander and arl must trouble herself with.

A report first, from one of her lieutenants, informing her that there were no more sightings of darkspawn along the coast.

Next, a patrol schedule submitted by the seneschal. A quick survey of the list showed that all was in order. She placed it aside.

Then, a letter from the Baan of Amaranthine, asking for more soldiers to patrol during the weeklong spring festivities next month. That was fair, and necessary; the festival drew large crowds, and was generally a very rowdy time. The seneschal had drafted an agreement in response for her, and she had but to authorize it. She raised her quill to sign her name.

But she was forgetting something. Had there been some sort of omission, some stipulation that would offend the high-strung baan? Frowning, she scanned the document.

No, there was nothing untoward in the agreement, or even in the original letter. She placed down her quill, wondering what had unsettled her in the first place.

A seal would be sufficient. She reached for a stick of red wax, and for the candle upon her desk to heat it. After dripping a large daub onto the page, she pressed the heavy seal of the Grey Wardens down upon it, then placed instruments and document aside.

She was about to move to the next letter when there came a knock on the door. Without waiting for her response, the handle turned, the door swung swiftly open, and the visitor walked through.

The person who walked into her study was not at all who she expected. White hair, slight frame clad in enchanter's robes, and clutching a staff-the elderly mage looked as though she had aged considerably since their last encounter. More lines had appeared on her delicate features, and she leaned on her staff as though she had begun to depend upon it. Her smile, however, was just as gentle and patient as before.

"Hello, dear."

"Wynne! Aneth ara—" Pleasantly surprised, she rose and gestured to a seat in front of her desk, smiling. "Please, have a seat. If I had known you were coming... Have you said hello to Alistair?"

The older woman moved to a chair as requested, and sat down with a slight sigh. There was a strange flicker of uncertainty in her features, though her expression remained pleasant. "Alistair... is here?"

"He's probably on the battlements right now. Let me send for him."

"No, that won't be necessary," came the quick reply. "I would rather speak with you alone, first."

There was something unsettling about the mage's behaviour.

"Is something the matter?" she asked the older woman.

In response, Wynne fixed her gaze solemnly—sternly—at her.

"You know, I spent some time looking for you in the Free Marches. Your clan has settled in by the Sundermount. It was a difficult journey for these tired old legs of mine."

"You looked for me there?" She leaned forward in her seat, frowning in confusion. "Why?"

"No one had seen you for such a long time, and it was believed that you had hidden away with your clan." The disapproval was now clear in Wynne's eyes. "Marethari, however, informed me that she had not seen you ever since venturing north."

It did not make any sense.

"I've been here the whole time, Wynne," she explained carefully. She tried to keep her words calm, refusing to allow her growing sense of dread to show through. Perhaps the long journey had confused the mage? "I came here to Vigil's Keep, right after we defeated the darkspawn."

Her visitor remained silent for some time, turning away to look out one of the study's many windows. The only sound in the room was the occasional cracking of the fire. Then, finally—

"My dear... do you remember what you mentioned of your future plans, on that day of celebration in Denerim?"

"What?" Somehow, her throat had turned dry.

"You wanted to continue on your journey. You asked for time, before you committed to settling in Amaranthine. And then you disappeared." The mage paused, letting her message sink in, before continuing, "They've long since found an Orlesian replacement. _It's been over a year since then, Suledin._"

The words were like a hot iron, and she flinched back as though struck, nearly unbalancing her chair. There was something she _would not_ think about in what Wynne had said, and she was still struggling for something, anything to respond with, when the doors flew open and Alistair came striding through in full armor.

"Is everything alright? I heard voices—"

She felt a rush of relief upon his entrance, but looking at him and how he scowled at the mage, she realized that she had not been spared from her confusion.

"Wynne," Alistair said, his voice oddly strained. "What are you doing here?"

"I came here looking for her," was the mage's reply. They remained glaring at each other, mage and ex-templar, until she rose from her seat to break the silence.

"Alistair," she managed to ask, "Why are you treating her so coldly?"

Her lover did not respond.

"It is because he is _not_ Alistair," said Wynne.

A hissed oath escaped from the man, and slowly, slowly Suledin turned to look at him. Sandy hair. Hazel eyes. Tall, sturdy frame. It was all as she had remembered. A solemn, troubled look was on his features, and he met her eyes with an expression of full sincerity

"You don't believe her, do you? You can't."

She remained silent.

"That is not Alistair," said Wynne sharply, interrupting them from where she was seated. "The real Alistair was named king at the Landsmeet. _You_ named him king at the Landsmeet, Suledin. You saw him crowned, and he set you aside." The mage frowned, then amended softly, "You set each other aside."

"Andraste's flaming sword—I would _never_ leave her—"

"No," interrupted Suledin, "You would. You did. I remember."

Both mage and ex-templar looked to her then, the latter striding forward to take hold of her shoulder.

"Surely—"

She shook her head. "You don't need to pretend. It's coming back to me, now. I remember."

Alistair backed away, the hurt all too evident on his face. From across her desk, she heard Wynne scoff.

"You do realize that 'he' is a demon?"

"Yes," Suledin said. She met the older woman's eyes firmly, secure in her position for the first time that night. "Leave me in peace, Wynne. I chose this, freely."

"You can't be serious," replied the mage, rising out of her chair. Her voice shook with accusation. "You _chose_ to be enthralled by a sloth demon?"

Soft, masculine laughter interrupted the two women.

"I did not expect such a thing either," rumbled Alistair—the demon—from behind her. "She stumbled in initially, it's true... but then it was she who named the terms of this mutually beneficial agreement." Suledin felt him wrap his arms tightly around her, and she resisted the compulsion to lean in. Though she could not see his expression, she could read the rage that flared in Wynne's eyes in response.

"She dreams the dreams she wishes," the demon continued. "And in return, mage, I can feed on her for so very long—" But if it was going to continue, it had no opportunity to do so. There was a sudden murmured command from the mage, a brilliant blaze of light—and with a shock Suledin found herself held by a being in paralysis.

"Stop," she ordered, stumbling forward before Wynne could manage another spell. Hurriedly, she moved to stand between the mage and her target, waiting until the other woman had terminated her hold on her magic. Only then, she moved to explain—

"I've always done what was best for Ferelden. I've sacrificed...I've bled... I've done my duty. Now let me live out what time I have left, and forget. Please." The last word escaped her mouth in little more than a whisper.

Wynne did not seem swayed by her words, but lowered her staff accordingly.

"The world still needs you, Suledin."

She shook her head. "Find someone else."

"You can't replace reality with lies."

"I can try."

The mage turned away.

"Then you are lost."

She would have left right then and there, had Suledin not spoken out in that moment.

"Dareth shiral, Wynne. Please... tell no one of this."

"I make no promises on that matter," said Wynne, curtly.

The mage left without a further word, leaving Suledin and the demon behind.


	3. Chapter 3

Suledin stood in the deserted throne room of the Keep, hands clenched, shaking.

In front of her, on the steps that led to the dais, bloomed a crystalline cluster of lyrium. It glowed faintly, hideously, a jarring sight in the otherwise ordinary chamber.

She could not ignore it.

From the corner of her eye she noticed one of the side doors swing open, then softly click shut. She paid it no mind until she heard the heavy, familiar tread of the demon's approach.

"Curious, isn't it? A mere imitation of reality, yet they are beyond my power to mask from your sight... without your assistance." His voice was apologetic and shrouded in Alistair's gentle tones, but she could detect the current of amusement beneath—a low rumble barely inside the range of her hearing.

She looked at him, the demon wearing Alistair's honest, guileless face, and then she tore her gaze away.

"This is all a lie."

"A sweet lie; you admitted it yourself to your mage friend." He stepped in close, but made no attempt to touch her. "Haven't you earned this rest, my dear? Do you not deserve sweet happiness after such personal sacrifice?"

She shook her head. "Wynne is right. I am forsaking my duty to my clan, to Ferelden. To him—"

He reached for her then, and ran his hands down her sides. His mouth—Alistair's lips—murmured against her skin, making her shiver, making her ache with want.

"Why must you martyr yourself? Tell me what your heart desires, and I will give it to you. You won't be able to tell the difference, I promise." He chuckled softly. "I'll work harder this time, Suledin."

She tensed at those last words, and with some effort freed herself from his grip, backing away.

"Do _not_ speak my name, demon."

"Is this how it's going to be?" it growled in response. "Hrm. What should I call you then? Ferelden king's slut? Ferelden king's whore?" It advanced on her, distorting Alistair's face into a cruel mockery of a smile. "Even now you are tempted to crawl back to him. You'd spread your legs and beg—"

She backhanded it, with the full force of her body. The clatter echoed in the air as the demon rocked back on its feet, but in the next second it was lurching forward, taking hold of her arms and slamming her against the ground with a power far greater than could have been contained in any one body.

Though the wind was knocked from her lungs, she fought in earnest. It chuckled when she attempted an incapacitating blow. It barely grimaced when she kicked him below the belt. All efforts to slip away were futile; she was pinned down, against that weight.

He leaned over her and tongued the tips of her ears.

"You are mine. _Mine,_" he said.

Slowly he brought his hands up to grope at her breasts. When she cringed, he bit at her neck until she screamed.

"You belong to me. Say it."

She would not, and in response the demon methodically removed a gauntlet, letting it clatter to the floor. Hand bared, he reached down to stroke her between her legs.

"_Stop_—" she gasped.

His fingers played with her in the way only he had ever done, toying with her folds till she was drowning in waves of pleasure and despair. She cried out, unsure as to whether she was screaming for aid or for release, for _him_, or for the lie.

"Alistair—Alistair-"

And then he was freeing himself from his armor, and then he was pushing himself into her, thrusting till she lost all thought but the one: that she wanted it to continue. In her daze she could smell his sweat, that scent she'd come to know—the scent of exertion from the nights they'd first lain together underneath the stars, when they both had been free to love each other without the restraints of honour or duty.

With a grunt he came inside of her, and in feeling the heat fill her body she surrendered to it, sobbing.

And then it was Alistair holding her tightly to him. It was Alistair soothing her, stroking her hair and murmuring to her amidst the soft sweet kisses he was planting on her brow.

"I will fight the rest of the world to keep you to me, I swear it. I will _never_ let you go."

She shut her eyes, held tightly onto him, and believed.

A/N: Reader, you have a choice of two endings. 4a is sad; 4b is decidedly happier. Either way, please continue to the Epilogue after that.


	4. Chapter 4A

They had wandered the grasslands for what seemed like forever—just her and Alistair, following the meandering of a never-ending river without a set destination. No one came to disturb them, and neither did they long for company. One day blurred with the next day, and the next, and little changed until the morning she had discovered she was with child.

They stopped their roaming then, and built a small house together by the woods. It was there she had given birth—first to Nuvenin, a wish they both had not expected to come to pass. Some time later came Enansal, another blessing to their lives.

She was happy then, as a mother and a wife.

On this particular morning, Alistair was minding the children, who were busy at play indoors. She was out alone in the yard, minding the garden, when the sudden flash of lightning lanced across the sky.

The sky rumbled, and the earth shook. She stood up, startled, and was just in time to see Alistair dash off towards the direction of the fields.

"Go. Protect the children," he yelled as he ran. She did not question him, but set off down the pathway back towards their home.

She found Enansal there by the entrance of the house, clutching the doorframe with a perfect expression of terror on his face. She ran to him, to pick him up, but already his body was fading away, When she reached for his small frame, her hand went through where he had been—and then there was nothing in his place.

"Enensal?" Her heart was pounding in terror, but she refused to let panic take control. Surely there was an answer; surely this was just a nightmare—she would wake up soon and all would be as it was. "Nuvenin? Nuvenin, where are you?"

"Mamae!" she heard her daughter cry from within their home, but the voice was swallowed up by silence before it had a chance to echo.

Anguish overtook her, and she let out a shaking sob that turned into a scream.

Around her, the world itself was contorting, changing. Spirals of blue crystal erupted from the ground in clusters. The earth, the sky itself was beginning to glow in golden, luminescent hues. From an unknown part of her mind, she dazedly realized that it meant she was the Fade.

And in horror and in shame, Suledin began to remember.

"Alistair," she cried out, and took a staggering step back towards the pathway. No, that was wrong; there was no Alistair here in this place. She bit back his name, crying out instead: "Demon! What is happening? Show yourself!"

She came upon the creature at the gate.

It had dropped all deception, and was no longer wearing any disguise. It lurched towards her, hideous, and she realized that it had oozing, open wounds on its body. It had been attacked, then; there had been a fight.

"I cannot hold the illusion," said the demon, wearily. "It has come to the point where I require the rest of your strength."

She shut her eyes, struggling with its words. It had been kind to her, had it not?

"Then take it," she said.

The sloth demon rumbled out in laughter, then extended a decaying hand. "I was not seeking permission, foolish elf."

It was as though a multitude of claws tore into her, or perhaps the rending work of ten thousand teeth. At no point did anything touch her body, but she felt as though she were being devoured all the same. Her legs gave out, then, and it was all Suledin could do to stop her fall with her hands.

There was a weight on her now, so heavy that she could barely raise her head to address Sloth's retreating form.

"Do not leave yet, demon," she managed to gasp out. "Let me see his face one last time. Stop..." If it heard her, it gave no indication; soon, it was out of her sight and she could keep her gaze up no longer.

Her strength ebbed further. After her arms gave out, she collapsed onto her side. She needed willpower to move, and she had burnt all of hers away.

In the distance she heard the sounds of a struggle—a shout of challenge, followed by the clash of metal against metal; the roar of a flame blast, or perhaps a fireball. Minutes later, it ended in one last, terrible scream.

It took all of her energy to keep her eyes open now, and she was unable to turn her head to see what had just occurred. Dully, she wondered why she even tried to do so. What did it matter to her? Her vision whirled, and for a moment she nearly lapsed into unconsciousness. It would have been a fitting end.

The sound of Alistair's voice, however, called her back.

"—over there, spread out," he was saying, though she did not know who the demon would be addressing, here, now. And then a moment later, closer, "Oh Maker—Suledin! Hold on—"

The world spun and then righted itself, and she found herself being held up securely in the arms of the one she loved once again. The demon had been merciful. This was to be her last sight, then, this her last dream.

There was something strange about Alistair, however, and in her exhaustion it took several slow heartbeats for her to notice what it was. There were streaks of grey in his hair; tired lines had creased his strong features. With a start of surprise, she realized he had aged. And there was more.

When had she last seen such sorrow on Alistair's features?

When had she last seen such unfettered love in his gaze?

Surely this was the sweetest moment of her dream.

"Hold on, Suledin- No, no, _no_..."

His voice was ebbing away, or perhaps her sense of hearing.

"Ma serannas," she whispered to him, and all the world went dark.


	5. Chapter 4B

They had been roaming the grasslands for what seemed like months, following the meandering of a lazy river. When she thought of it, though she rarely did, it would strike her that they had no real objective, no set destination. The plains stretched on forever, the river was never-ending, and one day blurred with the next day, and the next.

But they were travelling together, she and Alistair, and it was enough.

On this particular morning, she had taken quiver and bow, and left Alistair by their campsite in order to hunt. Silent as a wraith, she had blended in with the tall grass and caught a doe unawares in a nearby patch of clover. She had been about to loose an arrow when the sudden sound of footsteps sent the deer bounding away.

"Suledin!"

Startled, she turned to face the intruder, keeping her bow drawn and ready. It was a red-haired woman, a shemlen, clad in robes with the unsettling pattern of an eye within a sunburst upon her chest. Upon reaching her, the woman smiled warmly.

"At last. You were not easy to find."

She took a moment to study the strange woman, and to verify that there was no one else hidden nearby. When that seemed to be the case, she allowed herself to relax somewhat though she did not lower her weapon.

"Are you fluent in the elven tongue?" she asked.

"What?" said the stranger. "No, I only know a few words here and there." The stranger's smile faded somewhat. "Do you not remember me?"

She shook her head, but some foreign memory—a snippet of a melody played upon a lute-echoed in the corner of her mind.

"I... do know you," she said, searchingly. "Your name is..."

"Leliana," the woman offered. Her accent was rich and lilting, mysterious.

"Leliana." Yes, it was familiar. She lowered her bow, and placed the arrow back into her quiver. When she looked over again, she realized the woman was gazing queerly at her.

"Do you remember Wynne?" Leliana asked. When she shook her head in reply, the woman continued, slowly. "She was the last to see you. It was in your study at Vigil's Keep."

"I've never been to such a place."

"But you _have_ heard of it?"

"No." A sudden wave of confusion washed over her. It was followed by a spark of anxiety. "Yes? I... don't recall." She glanced into the distance, wondering if the disorientation she was feeling was a sign she ought to leave, and quickly.

As if sensing her unease, Leliana stepped forward and placed a hand on her arm.

"You must try to remember, Suledin."

The sky dulled; birdsong seemed to fade. It was the second time the woman had used that word, and again it unnerved her.

"Why do you address me that way?" she asked.

"It is your name," Leliana replied.

"No, you are mistaken. My name is..."

She searched for a response, and found that there was nothing. No word, no memory, no recollection of any possibility in her mind. Had Alistair never called her any word besides an endearment? Had everyone else done the same? Who else was there in the world, and why could she not remember their faces? A sudden rush of apprehension nearly swept her off balance.

"Andraste forgive us—it has gained so much power," Leliana was saying. Her touch had turned into a grip, an insistent tug, and dully she realized the woman was trying to lead them towards the direction she had come... where some sort of pedestal stood rooted in the center of a strange blue glyph. Had it been there a moment before?

"We must leave, Suledin. There is trouble in Thedas, and we need you."

In her confusion, she took a half dozen steps towards the direction Leliana was so insistently pulling. She might have meekly followed the woman all the way to the pedestal, had she not heard the sound of Alistair's footsteps behind them, and his voice calling out just then.

"Foolish bard, did the mage not teach you her lesson? _It is too late._"

"Alistair?" She spun around to address the man who had materialized behind them, freeing herself from Leliana's grip as she did so. But his words had been spoken with a snarl, and the look she now saw on her beloved's face was so utterly unlike him that she froze in her tracks rather than walking to him. He approached them carefully, hand on sword hilt, instead.

"You shouldn't trouble yourself with her, my dear," Alistair said, and though there was a dangerous quality in his voice, the strange look on his features was been replaced by one of honest concern by the time he had trudged through the long grass to reach them. "This woman is raving mad. She approached me days ago, ranting about something or other, but I thought it best not to alarm you with it."

"Don't listen to him." replied Leliana, reaching for a dagger at her side. "He is not who he seems, and he means to lead you astray."

Out came Alistair's blade, the point directed at Leliana's throat.

"If you don't leave on your own, I _will_ use force."

Bard and former templar would have come to blows, if she had not hurriedly stepped in between them.

"Emma lath," she said to Alistair, beseechingly, "I need her to explain what she means."

"She means to tear us apart," he replied. He fixed his steady gaze upon her. "You don't want that, do you?"

No. Any doubt on the matter was overridden by a crippling fear.

"No," she said. On this, she was absolutely certain.

"Then I'm afraid she must leave," Alistair replied, almost airily. With his free hand, he moved to pull her close. "If you would be so kind, Leliana—"

But the bard refused to move.

"You are standing beside a demon, Suledin. The real Alistair has asked to see you—asked me to find you. He has been ruling in Denerim this entire time."

"Look at me," murmured the man at her side. His voice was gentle, his expression almost hurt. "Do I seem like a lie to you?"

"Think," retorted Leliana. "How did you get here, and why is it so peaceful? Why has no one been seeking you, the Hero of Ferelden?" The woman gestured around her. "The world is in turmoil. There is war brewing in Thedas. We need you—"

"Do you want to throw this all away?"

"—Alistair needs you—"

"He does _not_," Suledin cried out, her voice overcoming those of both of her appellants in her anger. "We agreed—it was made abundantly clear—"

Formed even before her thoughts did, the words shocked even herself.

And then the memories flooded back to Suledin, and along with them the pain.

_A campfire burning brightly in the darkness. A quiet confession, a promise, a rose, a kiss. Then fate, then duty, then the Dragon—followed by departures, excuses, regret—then this—_

"I remember," she said to the demon, and when her legs buckled she was steadied by its grip. She let it hold her, and quietly it chuckled when it reached up to caress her cheek.

"You fool bard," the demon said loudly, addressing the woman across from them. "You think I could hold her here if she did not wish it herself? No, the choice has always been hers-even now it remains the case." Leaning down, he brought his lips to murmur against Suledin's ear. "So tell me, my dear. You remember the humiliation you endured at his hands. You recall what little there is waiting out there for you. What will your choice be?"

Suledin shut her eyes.

"He is in danger?" she asked aloud, to Leliana.

"If you do not aid us, we all will be," was the reply.

"Then take me to him."

"You stupid elf," the demon roared, shoving her away. "You would throw away perfect bliss for a man who abandoned you? For a world that does not care?" As it howled it was already growing, changing, already dropping its guise. It towered before them in its true form, and the air crackled with the power it was already summoning forward to its aid.

It was easier now, after having said the words. Stumbling quickly to her feet, Suledin's fingers did not shake as she readied her bow. Her resolve did not waver as she reached for her quiver.

"There are some things more important than happiness," she said.

And, loosing her arrow, she sent it whistling into the demon's chest.

At first she could barely stand on her own, and the softest light was harsh to her eyes. Her body had weakened through years of disuse. It would take time to recover.

It had been nearly ten years, Leliana had confessed to her when they were finally en route to Denerim. Almost a decade, and many terrible things had taken place in that time.

She was needed in the world; that was abundantly clear. Her presence would have gone far to resolve many conflicts, or perhaps even to prevent them before they had taken place. She had been selfish indeed to keep to herself, Suledin realized that now.

It was strange, returning to a world where time had passed so swiftly and without her. It was painful, too, losing the illusion of a constant lover and companion at her side. But she made peace with both, slowly, and pushed all thoughts of false happiness away—she would endure its absence.

There was one question she left unasked, however, though it haunted her thoughts all the way to the castle. Had Alistair merely asked for her in her capacity as a Grey Warden? Did he have need of her, as Leliana had said, merely as the Hero of Ferelden?

It did not matter, she chided herself day after day as they traversed down the Imperial Highway. Even if he only showed her the barest hint of civility, she would endure it; it was her duty, to her nation, and to herself.

That would also be for the best; he was her vulnerability, and with such civil unrest across the land she would need to stay focused, to put all else aside.

It was too dangerous to hope otherwise.

* * *

><p>A week later, long past evenfall, they finally reached Denerim's castle gates. The guards at the entrance let them in without question the moment Leliana identified herself. It was unclear if any of them recognized the Hero of Ferelden, though Suledin noticed wary looks and a hush of silence wherever she passed by.<p>

She was led to the exterior of a study, and left there—Leliana excused herself, claiming an urgent need to speak with the others of her order, to deliver the good news of their return.

There was nothing to do, then, but to push open the door and take a step within.

It was quiet in the study, and the fire in the room had burnt down to embers. It was dark enough that Suledin could only make out the blurry form of the man across the room. She was reluctant to speak until her eyes adjusted—but was even more afraid of seeing what the expression would be on his face.

"Your majesty," she managed to say, but got no further—hurried steps had already begun upon registering her voice. Before another word had passed from her lips, she found herself caught in a tight embrace.

"Suledin." There was a tremor in Alistair's voice that broke her heart. Futilely, she attempted to hold to her resolution.

"The danger to Thedas,.."

"-can wait," he interrupted. "This cannot." And placing a hand at the back of her head, he leaned down to meet her lips in a kiss. It ended only when they both had to stop and breathe.

"Maker, I have missed you," murmured Alistair. He moved back a step, though it seemed only so he could look properly at her—he was still holding onto her as if afraid she would fade away when released. "Letting you leave was the biggest mistake of my life. Will you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive," she said, reaching up to cup his face. He had aged, in the time they were apart—fine lines had set in at the corners of his eyes, no doubt from the stresses of being a reigning king. She took in those changes, committing them to memory as though she would not have the opportunity to do so again.

"It was hard to locate you, or so I was told," Alistair said finally, to break the quiet. "But once we found you... I knew you would return."

"Why?" She withdrew her hand, a twinge of guilt coursing through her at the sincerity of his remark.

"You always thought of others before yourself—and endured the burden of that duty." He smiled, and it seemed to Suledin that it was a sight she had never seen properly in the past ten years. "You were never one to forget about important things like that."

Shame bit at her again, but when she tried to voice a denial he pulled her close once more.

"No more repeating my mistakes," Alistair murmured against her temple. "I'm never letting you go again." But, as though a sudden thought had just struck him, the king quickly amended, "Not unless you wanted to, that is."

An awkward silence hung in the air as Alistair took a step back. Suledin looked up at him. A flush had grown on his royal highness' ears and neck.

"In these last ten years, there wasn't... you haven't... found someone else have you? Not that that's wrong—it isn't—and if you need me to step aside, I will." All hands. Somewhat startled, Suledin realized she had forgotten about this part of him.

"...You haven't though, right? Moved on?"

It was so very different. So very real. Smiling, she pulled him close and rested her head against him.

"There's only ever been you."


	6. Epilogue

_It is the final watch of the night, and the rest of the party has long since withdrawn from the clearing and retired into their individual tents. _

_The evenings have grown colder, and they huddle together near the campfire to ward off the chill. They are not intimate, not yet, but already there is a familiarity in how she rests her head against his shoulder. He has mustered the courage to wrap an arm securely around her, and for her sake he remains perfectly still as they wait for the morning. He believes that she has fallen asleep until she quietly murmurs his name aloud. _

_"Alistair."_

_Her voice sends a sudden rush of heat through his body, and he brushes his lips gently across her temple in response._

_"Your desire is my command."_

_He watches her turn her gaze to the fire, noting how the flames illuminate the delicate vallaslin patterns across her features. Maker, she was beautiful._

_"I was just thinking about your name," she says gently, interrupting his thoughts. "Alistair. It has a very pleasant sound to it."_

_He chuckles in response. "Yes, I do like it more than 'Marcus' or 'Roderick,' and I don't know what I would have done with myself if I'd been named 'Paul.'" A quick survey of her features shows that she has missed the levity of his remark. Indeed, she looks so solemn that he wonders if his errant jest has offended her. _

_"To be quite honest," he adds, "I've never given it much thought."_

_A studious frown forms on her brow. "What does it mean?"_

_"Hm? 'Defender of the people,' or something like that." He considers for a moment. "When I was younger, I used to wonder if my mother named me. I never did found out the answer."_

_She takes hold of his shield hand with both of hers. _

_"It is very fitting." _

_They lapse into silence, and for a moment it seems as though the conversation has concluded. He nearly inquires as to her well-being, puzzled as he is by her talk, but he is stopped by a light squeeze of his hands and her explanation._

_"We Dalish put much consideration into our names. A name defines the individual, and it gives them power. Some even believe they shape our futures." _

_He considers this, then raises an eyebrow. "What does Suledin mean?"_

_"It is difficult to translate. It means to withstand... to endure." She hesitates, and keeps her gaze focused upwards, at the wide expanse of cloudy sky. Without understanding why or how, he realizes that she is baring a truth to him._ "_It is a name like a dar'misu, Ashalle used to say. One named thus will be able to overcome any obstacle that comes to her."_

_"...Meaning that she will have those obstacles to overcome in her life. A double-edged blade," he finishes. He cannot keep the wonder from his voice as he imagines the history of the people who would see fit to give a child such a name._

_"Yes. A curse and blessing, all in one." She finally lowers her eyes and smiles a wistful smile for him, and it nearly breaks his heart. "In the end, I suppose I am thankful for it. Else how could I be here with you, battling this Blight?"_

_He loves her. He realizes it fully then._

_"You won't be taking on those obstacles alone now, you know." Perhaps it is said too carelessly, but he can't imagine ever parting from her. Never, never would he do so willingly. "We'll face them together, Suledin."_

_They were comrades, they were Grey Wardens. They were more than that-and any burdens of hers were also his. _

_Even years later, he would remember the look of gratefulness in her eyes, and the radiant warmth of her answering smile._


End file.
